


War of Attrition

by out_there



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Good Omens Big Bang, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Presents, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-22 12:03:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22449310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: "It's rather lovely." Aziraphale holds it up, carefully brushing the crumbs off and looking at the bird in flight. "Such delicate work."Crowley shrugs. "Keep it.""Are you sure?""It's hardly my colour scheme," Crowley replies.  The look Aziraphale gives him is far too knowing.***Three presents Crowley gave Aziraphale.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 136
Kudos: 510
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	1. On Golden Wings

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Smallhobbit for the Britpick and beta read. Thanks to Brynncognito for a final beta read. The gorgeous art is by bootsselbst, who took vague descriptions and absolutely brought them to life!
> 
>  **Attrition (noun)**  
>  1\. the process of reducing something's strength or effectiveness through sustained attack or pressure.  
> 2\. (in scholastic theology) sorrow for sin, falling short of contrition. Sorrow for one's sins that arises from a motive other than that of the love of God.

If it was up to Crowley, he'd let Ireland sink into the sea. It's cold and damp, and if someone Down Below hadn't insisted on a specific temptation there, Crowley wouldn't have left the warm Mediterranean sunshine. Still, if he has to be here amongst the rain and fog and mud huts lined with animal dung, he might as well fit in as many temptations as he can. Save him coming back to this wretched island for a few centuries.

It's all the standard little things, walking through crowds and whispering to the humans about how pretty that man's wife was, how their neighbour's hut was bigger than it should be, how the market place was full of thieves and fools. None of it's hard -- humans barely need nudging towards sin -- and it looks good on reports. It's easy work, but Crowley's never felt the need to do more than he has to.

Wandering through the marketplace, Crowley pauses at a silversmith's stall. He's only a typical human: kind to his wife but quick to anger, loyal to his friends but likes increasing his prices for travellers. Greed is an easy sin to encourage. It's one of Crolwey's favourites. 

Crowley takes a second look at the jewellery spread across the table. "What's that?" he asks, pointing to the cloth bundled at the back of the table.

The silversmith looks up at Crowley, noticing the fine black fabric of his clothes, and Crowley feels the warm bloom of greed in his mind, unfurling like a flower seeking light. "It's my more expensive work," the man says, smiling as he leans closer and unfolds the cloth. 

There are only a handful of items: a silver bangle encrusted with turquoise, a thick silver circlet, silver rings set with large gems and a few gold rings. The gold rings look plain compared to the rubies and emeralds set in silver, but they've been made with more care. A precious metal very carefully fashioned into twirls and knots, and on one particular ring, a pair of wings curling up from the centre.

Crowley reaches for the winged ring, thinking of white feathers and the glimmer of heaven. "How much?"

The thoughts flash across the silversmith's mind with amusing predictability. First, the actual price and then the thought that a man who could afford to dress so finely would pay more for good work. Then the thought of how much could he charge, could he get Crowley to pay double? Maybe more. Perhaps he should start higher, and then bargain down? "Forty denarii," he says, quoting three times the price he expected for the ring.

"Done," Crowley agrees, creating a small bag of coins with a flick of his fingers. He makes sure to open the bag wide as he pulls out the payment, showing how much more he had to spend. He leaves the silversmith with the disquieting thought that Crowley would have paid far more.

***

***

Crowley rather likes the ring. He wears it all the way back to the continent, amused by the golden wings. He likes the weight of it, sturdy enough to suit a man's hand, yet crafted with detail. He likes the way the metal warms to body temperature. He especially likes the fine feathers etched into the metal, even if they're probably intended as a nod to Rome's imperial eagle.

It's a fine piece of jewellery, but he whips it off his hand when he catches the sulfuric stench of another demon. This demon is only a messenger, here to listen to Crowley's latest evil deeds and report them back to Hell, but Crowley isn't taking any stupid risks. Hell has an official stance on angels and it's very clear. Angels are the enemy. Angels deserve to burn alive in hellfire.

There's a reason why no demon wears gold. Gold is the colour of heaven, the colour of their enemies; the colour of those who threw them out of God's grace and slammed the door behind them. No demon would wear the enemy's colour, not if he wanted to continue existing the next day.

Crowley keeps his hand beneath his tunic, the gold band held tight in his fist. He recounts temptations and humans driven to sin (well, gently led and lightly encouraged, but accuracy isn't a good idea when reporting to Downstairs) and gets assigned to Macedonia. It's almost routine, if Crowley ignores how tightly his knuckles are clenched, and how carefully he's fighting the urge to cower away from a lowly messenger.

***

On the whole, most angels are best avoided. Crowley doesn't hate them the way most of Hell hates them: with the vicious fury of a spurned lover. But he remembers Gomorrah, remembers the heady, carefree town it had once been, and the burning rubble left afterwards. He remembers waiting until the archangels had left and then walking through those ruined streets, walking past bodies and collapsed buildings and the detritus of lives interrupted.

He remembers blinking through the smoke, amazed to see another being there. Not a human, none of them had been left alive, but _Aziraphale_. His pale robes were smeared with ash and his mouth was tightly pinched as he looked over the remains of scrolls and tablets. He kept his hands clasped tightly in front of him: the picture of pious regret.

"Saw the whole show?" Crowley asked, and Aziraphale spun around with a guilty glance over his shoulder.

"The whole… oh," Aziraphale said, and then his face crumpled in concern. "I don't know if I'd call it a show."

"Massacre?" Crowley suggested, and Aziraphale lifted his chin.

"Divine retribution."

Crowley felt his eyebrows rise. "Retribution?" he repeated carefully, hoping the word sounded as ridiculous as it should. "A few humans relax some rules, and the entire town burns as retribution?"

"That's… that's the official term. Divine retribution," Aziraphale said, wringing his hands as he glanced down at the destroyed street. "It just seems so…"

"So…?" This is why Crowley liked Aziraphale. He might be an angel. He might follow Heaven's orders without question. He might truly believe every angel is better than every demon, but he always cared for the humans. Despite his orders, he always cared. 

"Well," Aziraphale said, turning his gaze away from the smouldering ruins around them, "you know I don't have any input on policy decisions."

***

Macedonia is busy with people and wealth. The crowds on the street walk around in clothes dyed deep reds and bright blues, flashing baubles and decorations in chunky gold and thick silver, set with foreign gems. In the bright sunshine from a clear blue sky, the people parade like peacocks, glittering with pride and avarice. It's Crowley's kind of place.

Amongst the sin and vanity, there's a hint of heavenly grace, a lightness in the air like the cool wind high in the mountains. It reminds Crowley of flying, of thin air cutting through his feathers and bursting through clouds to find the sun beaming down from above. It reminds Crowley of things he doesn't think about, and makes him wary enough to keep an eye on the crowds around him.

There's a sense of the miraculous from a small tavern, and Crowley risks a peek inside. There, at a far table, is a shockingly familiar head of blond curls. Grinning, Crowley steps inside.

"Aziraphale," he says, sauntering up to the angel's table. "Fancy seeing you here."

The tunic over Aziraphale's shoulders is white and edged with tiny swirls of gold along the sleeves. The fabric is starting to fray at his cuffs, the white smudged with red dirt. There's a leather cord around his neck, a few blue and amber beads hanging from it. "Crowley! How lovely. Here on business, I assume?"

"Same old, same old." Crowley doesn't wait for an invitation. He pulls out a stool and sits. "You?"

"A few minor blessings. A long term project or two."

"That reminds me..." Crowley digs out his coin bag and fishes for the gold ring. He places it on the table and pushes it towards Aziraphale.

"What's this?" Aziraphale frowns at it, but he's an angel. He can't feel the greed and deceit attached to the sale of the ring; he can probably only feel the wonder and affection involved in its creation. 

"Saw it and thought of you," Crowley lies.

"Oh, I don't think I could accept," Aziraphale says, giving the ring a conflicted frown. "It might be seen as bribes from the enemy."

Crowley rolls his eyes. "It's not a bribe. It's a gift. Think of it as a donation if you like. Your side likes those."

"I really couldn't." Aziraphale picks it up, staring at the detailed work. There's a shimmer of avarice in his expression, behind the soft smile and gentle eyes. "It is a wonderful piece, though."

"Just take it, angel."

"Oh, hush," Aziraphale mutters, but he turns the ring over in his palm. It glows against the faint tan on his skin, and matches the gold embroidery along Aziraphale's tunic. It suits him.

"It's hardly my style." Crowley helps himself to Aziraphale's cup. It's ale and barely drinkable, so he pushes the cup back across the table. "I'm not going to wear it, am I?"

"That would be such a waste," Aziraphale replies slowly, tempted. He slides the ring on his pinky finger and it fits as well as Crowley expected. "But you wouldn't…"

"Wouldn't what?"

"You wouldn't report this? You wouldn't tell anyone?" Aziraphale glances up through his lashes, as coy and concerned as a virgin on her wedding night. The softly pursed lips, the widened eyes: it would be a good look on Aziraphale if not for the genuine fear underlying it. "I really don't think my side would approve. If they caught wind of it, they'd be terribly disappointed in me."

Crowley leans over the table with a debonair grin. He has no intention of mentioning this to Down Below. Hell wouldn't be disappointed; Hell would be _furious_. "It will be our little secret," Crowley promises, and Aziraphale beams at him, brighter than a newly made star.

***

It's a nice trinket but Crowley doesn't truly expect to see it again. He figures Aziraphale might wear it for a decade or two before casting it aside for something new, but four centuries later it's still on the angel's right hand. The gold remains unvarnished and clean, a plain band with two wings to either side. Sometimes Crowley gets distracted by it when he runs into Aziraphale, looking to see if Aziraphale's finally traded it for something newer or grander… but it's always that same ring. 

They're both in Mykonos delivering opposing blessings and temptations, the pointless, general kind that makes Crowley think they might as well both stay in bed for all the ultimate difference they make. They run into each other at the crowded seaside market and end up sharing a few bottles of wine. Aziraphale has a dozen fresh oysters in front of him, raw with lemon and a local spicy sauce, and every time he lifts one up to eat it, Crowley gets distracted by the flash of gold on his finger.

When Aziraphale catches Crowley looking, he holds out a shell, complete with a white, slimy oyster inside. "Would you like to try one? They really are scrumptious."

Crowley eyes the unappealing thing in Aziraphale's hand. "I didn't like oysters in Rome. I don't think I'll like them less cooked."

"That's right. You didn't care for the texture, as I recall." Aziraphale gives a little shrug and then tips the contents of the shell into his mouth, swallowing with a happy wriggle of his shoulders. "You did enjoy the lamb, though. I saw a stall--"

"It's fine." Crowley knows saying that he's not hungry won't work. Angels and demons don't get hungry or thirsty or weary. They're not prone to the needs of the flesh, no matter how human their corporations. "I'm here for the alcohol."

Aziraphale's smile is far too indulgent. "If you say so," he says, ring glinting in the sunlight as he reaches for his own clay cup. "You never told me what brought you here."

"Pride, sloth, gluttony and wrath. I'm tempted to stay another month and get all seven in."

"Summer is just around the corner," Aziraphale says hopefully. "It's as warm as Eden, but the seabreeze is delightful."


	2. Silken Strands, Strong and Fine

Crowley likes Venice. He's liked it since the Romans retreated to an uninhabitable marshland and decided to bury a bunch of logs in the ground and build on those. Crowley first saw it when it was only a small collection of wooden buildings with plans to build with stone, and he’d thought the idea was hilarious. He'd been certain that the weight of stone would see the entire town sink into the bog beneath, so he stuck around for a good laugh.

It didn't sink. Those terribly clever humans found a way to create their own stone islands, to build homes and shops and eventually cathedrals on that useless land. It was amazing what they could think up, given enough time and motivation. 

It's become something of a habit to stop by whenever he's in the area. It's reassuring to see that impossible city standing there, slowly growing and taking over the islands around it.

Since he's there, Crowley does a few temptations. Encourages a damned soul here, spreads some ill will and jealousy there. It's enough to list on a report, but it's nothing challenging or fun. It's not a plague pit in the fourteenth century, so Crowley knows life could be worse, but there are times when being a demon, well… Avoiding literal hell comes down to persistence, not passion. The work may be boring, but as long as he shows up and submits reports, he gets to stay on Earth.

And staying on Earth means Crowley gets to enjoy liquors and warm, sunny afternoons. He gets to stroll over tiny bridges and down beside the canals, or take a boat out to an island he's never stepped foot on before. He gets to wander past brightly painted houses and down to local markets, and haggle over a black shawl with a wrinkled grandma and her remaining five crooked teeth.

She bargains without mercy, ruthless even as she smiles and calls him ‘young man’ and ‘dear’. For a moment, Crowley misses Aziraphale. He hasn't seen the angel in decades, but he has seen the angel purchase scrolls and argue prices down to a fraction of their price. Aziraphale will espouse generosity and charity to others and then mercilessly refuse to pay a coin more than he has to. 

Grinning, Crowley agrees to the old woman's price and miracles up a few extra coins into her purse. If Head Office asks, he'll claim he was testing her honesty and encouraging her into a life of deceit.

At the back of the market there are stalls upon stalls of lacework, fine cotton and silks weaved into extravagant patterns. Most are white or cream, as repetitive and visually pleasing as a beehive. Some are simple collars and others are detailed and long. Crowley wanders along the tables, fascinated by the skill and time put into the fabric. There are motifs of flowers and leaves, or hexagonal patterns, and even a very ugly attempt at a cherub. Crowley snorts, almost tempted to buy it just to offend Aziraphale, and then he spots another piece on the next table. 

It's made of silk thread, a stunning sheer white with detailed edges of gold. It's a few hands wide and twice as long, but the entire piece is detailed in fine stitches. In the bottom left corner is a white dove, head tilted quizzically before it takes flight, a line of artfully rendered doves flying up to the right corner, to finally rest on a branch. It could be the gold threads that make Crowley think of Aziraphale, or the luxury of silk, or the stretch of white wings in flight; it's not. What makes Crowley think of Aziraphale is the bird on the branch, chest out and feathers fluffed up, a plump and cosy bird getting comfortable. 

Crowley buys it immediately and folds it within his cloak.

***

***

Crowley prefers the heat of Italian summer but the first step to finding Aziraphale is returning to England. Aziraphale was charged with caretaking King Arthur's England and even though Camelot is long gone, Aziraphale hasn't technically been released from that assignment. He may occasionally wander over to the continent, but he's never too far from his allocated region.

Crowley's glad that Hell doesn't work the same way. Hell believes in assigning tasks; geography is inconsequential. A demon may be assigned a temptation in Africa and then Australia and then France, with no consideration given for how that demon has to make his way there. (Crowley had once argued how long it would take him by ship and had been told to burrow through the Earth like a proper demon. Given the option of travelling through mud and soil, Crowley had flown there instead and accidentally given a few sailors religious epiphanies.)

Unfortunately, there's no hint of the divine in London. Crowley wanders among taverns and coffeehouses, but there's no sign of the angel. It takes him two weeks to finally locate Aziraphale in a monastery up north.

Crowley's never been a huge fan of writing. He tends to smear ink, and he hates the way paper crackles and smoulders when he signs his name. But he writes Aziraphale a note and bribes a local boy to deliver it up to the monastery.

He doesn't sign his name to the note itself. He only asks Aziraphale to meet him at dawn at the eastern edge of the monastery. He scribbles a snake beneath his words so Aziraphale will know it's him.

The horizon is glowing a lighter shade of blue as Aziraphale walks across the monastery lands. There are flat fields of low growing green vegetables, green tops standing in rows like disciplined Roman soldiers. Aziraphale doesn't rush. He walks with his back perfectly straight and his hands folded over his simple brown robes. The cowl is pulled over his head, but a tuft of pale blond hair peeks out.

Crowley stays as he is, sprawled against the stacked stone wall, but he pushes his own hood back. 

Aziraphale smiles as he walks closer. "Crowley! What a pleasant surprise."

"Surprise? Who did you think you were meeting?"

"To be honest, I wasn't sure. Couldn't think who would have signed their name with an S."

Crowley glares at him. "It was a snake."

"It was an S."

"It was a snake. It had a head."

"It was an S with an ink smear," Aziraphale says, giving him an unimpressed look. "Much like the rest of that message. Honestly, my dear, your handwriting leaves a great deal to be desired."

"I'm not trying to be desired for my handwriting." Crowley huffs, standing upright. There's a sting of heat under his toes and he pulls his foot back, hissing.

Aziraphale's face softens in apology. "They bless their land right to the borders," he says gently. "Perhaps we should walk through the woods."

"Won't they excommunicate you for leaving the monastery grounds?"

Aziraphale raises one haughty eyebrow. "They could try, I suppose."

Crowley grins. He has missed the angel. "I was in the area. I only wanted to say hello. Not worth getting in trouble over."

"Nonsense." Aziraphale pushes a canvas sack into Crowley's hands and something inside it clinks. Then Aziraphale climbs over the low stone wall, hitching his robes up to his sturdy knees and descending easily down the other side. "This way."

Crowley follows him, opening the bag and peering inside in the slowly lightening dawn. There's a glass bottle of red wine, a smaller bottle of something lighter, a small loaf of bread and some cheeses. "Did you bring a picnic?"

"A light breakfast."

"Did you bring a picnic when you didn't know who you were meeting?" Crowley hopes he doesn't sound as delighted as he feels. Only Aziraphale would think of food when facing a mystery summons.

"I wouldn't have shared if it had been someone unpleasant," Aziraphale replies, leading them into the trees.

***

The smaller bottle turns out to be honey wine, made from the beehives on the monastery grounds. It's cloyingly sweet on the tongue, but Crowley takes his sip from the bottle and passes it back to Aziraphale, letting Aziraphale ramble on about the hives he cares for and the books he's carefully copied and the hearty meals served daily. There's a breeze through the leaves above them and the dappled sunlight dances across Aziraphale's happy face.

"The countryside suits you," Crowley says, relaxing against the sturdy tree behind him. They're sitting in the forest, soft dirt beneath them, canopy of leaves overhead and a stream burbling nearby. Aziraphale had led them off the small path with easy confidence, taking them somewhere private and undisturbed. Crowley wonders how often Aziraphale sneaks away to this spot with his own private picnic, perhaps with a borrowed scroll to read.

"It has its appeals," Aziraphale replies, taking a measured sip of wine. "But what about you? What have you been up to? I haven't seen you in, oh, it must be twenty years."

"Thirty-two years." Crowley keeps track of these things. He keeps track of Aziraphale. "I've been here and there. Venice, most recently."

"It's such a pretty city." Aziraphale sighs happily, handing over the bottle. It's nearly empty so Crowley only takes a small sip and passes it back. Aziraphale smiles and finishes it. "I do love their bridges."

"And their biscuits," Crowley says, and Aziraphale lights up at the thought.

"Do they still do baicoli?" Aziraphale asks wistfully. "You didn't happen to bring any back, did you?"

Crowley rolls his eyes. In some ways, the angel is far too predictable. "They had some on the ship." He pulls a small bundle of white cloth out of his jacket pocket.

Aziraphale beams like the sun rising over the horizon, taking it from Crowley's outstretched hands. "Oh, my dear, thank you." He carefully unfolds the lace around the package and pulls out the first biscuit, closing his eyes to savour the first bite.

Crowley is grateful for his tinted spectacles. He's thankful he has something to hide behind while watching Aziraphale's face: the gently closed eyes, the soft lips, the sheer pleasure captured in his expression. Aziraphale does have the good manners to offer him one, but Crowley declines. He'd rather watch Aziraphale enjoy them all.

After the last one, Aziraphale picks at the crumbs left on his lap and seems to notice the lace for the first time. "Did you pick this up in Venice too?"

"Burano."

"It's rather lovely." Aziraphale holds it up, carefully brushing the crumbs off and looking at the bird in flight. "Such delicate work."

Crowley shrugs. "Keep it."

"Are you sure?"

"It's hardly my colour scheme," Crowley replies.

The look Aziraphale gives him is far too knowing, but he folds the lace tenderly and tucks it out of sight in his robes. "Thank you," he says, as soft and earnest as a blessing.

"I know how you feel about biscuits, angel."

***

While Aziraphale orders a second serving of crepes (claiming it might be years before he can safely return to Paris for more), Crowley enjoys the sight of the angel dressed in something other than white and gold. The striped sash across his shoulder doesn't do him any favours, but Crowley rather likes the angel in burgundy red. The dark red jacket especially… it's something Crowley himself might wear. 

Of course, it's still Aziraphale, so even dressed as a revolutionary, he still has a fountain of lace around his neck. "How many revolutionaries wear lace?" 

Aziraphale frowns at him with a mouthful of raspberry crepe. He's too well-mannered to speak with his mouth full, so Crowley smirks at him and waits for him to swallow. "I'm hardly the only revolutionary walking around in something liberated from our oppressors." There's something lovely about the peevish expression on the angel's face: the pursed lips, the baleful stare, the irritation that Aziraphale usually hides under a polite smile and a firm but civil tone. Crowley doubts anyone else gets to see Aziraphale so honestly annoyed; it's something just for Crowley's eyes, a small secret he can gleefully hoard.

Crowley looks away before he's tempted to niggle Aziraphale further. He turns the wine glass in his hand, trying to think of a safer topic of conversation. Travel plans after this, perhaps, or the weather is an easy option. "Angel," he starts and then his gaze catches on the embroidery in the lace at the angel's neck. He knows those doves, the stretch of their wings carrying that plump body. "It's been centuries. How is that still in one piece?"

Aziraphale drags two soft fingers over the ruffles pouring from his collar. "Very careful washing."

"It hasn't even discoloured."

"There may have been a tiny bit of divine intervention," Aziraphale admits reluctantly.

"One of your frivolous miracles?"

"Hardly frivolous." Aziraphale leans in like a gossiping maid, elbows cradled around his unfinished crepes. Behind him, the sunlight burnishes his hair into a halo. "Can you believe Gabriel's note called it wasteful? It would be a waste to simply let it rot."

Crowley snorts. "What else did that note say?" 

It's all the invitation Aziraphale needs to tell him every detail.


	3. Shattered like Porcelain

Crowley's almost giddy when he sees the mug. He's strolling through Harrods, enjoying the background hum of envy: store girls envious of shoppers' free time, shoppers envious of women who can fit into that size or pull off that colour or afford that dress. And then he spots a thick white mug sitting amongst the fine china. Instead of handles, it has a pair of angel wings, and despite the price tag, it's one of the tackiest things Crowley's ever seen. He buys it immediately.

It feels like the perfect gift for Aziraphale, expensive and ugly as a mixed message. Like Aziraphale sitting in his car only a month ago and saying, "You go too fast for me," after handing Crowley a thermos of holy water. Crowley doesn't know what to make of it, the push-pull of Aziraphale's friendship, the way the angel leans in and then steps back. 

It's frustrating. Frustrating because every time Crowley hopes for more, the angel sidesteps and quotes Heaven's official policy, yet every time Crowley decides he's wrong, decides Aziraphale's just another angel who won't think for himself, Aziraphale does something unexpected. Something thoughtfully kind or a little bit spiteful, something that shows he has his own sense of justice and fair play, and is willing to bend the rules to enforce it. Deep down, Aziraphale isn't like the rest of them, no matter how hard he tries to hide it.

Crowley hasn't visited the bookshop since WWII but nothing's changed when he walks through the door. Still the musty smell of old pages and mildew, the murky light too dark for mortal eyes to read, and the disorganisation that only makes sense to someone who sorts their books by what they were eating when they first read it. It's wonderfully off-putting and it gives Crowley a warm glow of pride.

Crowley waits silently as Aziraphale comes bustling out, hands folded over his waistcoat and polite smile, ready to be unhelpful. Then he sees Crowley and his smile softens, warming into genuine pleasure. "Crowley. How lovely to see you. On official business?"

"Not quite," Crowley says, "but I have to be in Swansea at the end of the month. Anything you need done while I'm there?"

"Oh, I don't think so." Aziraphale purses his lips, thinking. "Nothing that springs to mind."

Crowley knows the angel well enough to wait. He recognises the sly, hopeful expression that lights up Aziraphale's face.

"Although," Aziraphale says slowly, eyes widening slightly, "if you're already there, there is a misprinted second edition of Mother Shipton that I was considering."

"Don't you already have Mother Shipton's prophecies?"

"Not a copy with this particular misprint," Aziraphale replies primly.

"Fine." Crowley rolls his eyes for good measure. "Write down the details. I'll pick it up for you."

While Aziraphale pulls out a sheaf of paper and a fountain pen, Crowley has a moment of doubting himself. It might have been better to simply make the mug appear in the shop's kitchenette. At the time, it had been fun to take advantage of the store's offer of gift-wrapping, to dither over choices and then demand the saleswoman restart and do it differently. To grin and be demanding and feel the wrath start to boil behind the trained smile of customer service. But now he has a gift-wrapped box and a strong desire to hide it on a shelf and run.

"There you go," Aziraphale says, holding out a carefully folded page of notes. He blinks at the box in Crowley's hand. "What's that?"

Crowley glares at the glossy, powder blue wrapping paper. The tartan ribbon is tied into an infuriatingly detailed bow. He'd melt it down to atoms, but that would only make Aziraphale ask more questions.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale asks gently, peering over Crowley's arm but not stepping any closer. This is what they do: they spend time together, but only so much. They stand close enough to talk, but never close enough to touch. There are lines they do not cross.

"For you." Crowley shrugs awkwardly. He glares at the box in his hands. "Since you gave me a thermos."

"Oh, I really don't think you should--" Aziraphale starts, all concern and regret, as if this is something far more important than a tacky mug.

"It's nothing, angel. Nothing demonic, at any rate. Take it." Crowley pushes the box at Aziraphale, pulling his hands back when Aziraphale grabs it on instinct. He snatches the page of notes from Aziraphale's other hand and heads for the door. 

"Crowley," Aziraphale says but it's such a soft sigh of sound that Crowley can pretend he didn't hear it.

He calls over his shoulder, "I'll drop your book round when I'm back," and strides out the door.

***

***

Swansea is precisely as cold and damp as Crowley remembers. He carries out his temptation and collects Aziraphale's book, and then drives straight back to London, the Bentley roaring over wet roads. Why doesn't he ever get ordered to do a temptation in the Bahamas? Bora Bora would be a much better locale than standing around in drizzle that refuses to turn into proper rain. 

Crowley's tempted to find a good excuse, think up some scheme for Hell and spend a few decades lazing around on sunny beaches. It's a fun idea but he knows he won't do it. Not because he's incapable of it, but because Aziraphale hasn't travelled beyond Europe in the last century. It's amazing how dull immortality can seem when he can't listen to Aziraphale complain about new technology, like telephones and locomotives. (He remembers Aziraphale complaining about the lack of artistry in the newfangled printing press, right until he realised it meant he could own books without having to copy them himself.) As much as Crowley loves the amazing things humans think up, sometimes you need to commiserate with someone who remembers the smell of ink on parchment and the click of beads on an abacus. Someone who remembers Rome's clean streets and barbaric entertainment, and how terribly dull the dark ages truly were.

Crowley pulls off the motorway to stop at a particular crossroads. The birches around here are tall and spindly, skeleton limbs stretching up into the dark sky. The moonlight throws everything into ghostly contrast, the cool white light casting deep shadows. It's wonderfully eerie. He can almost feel the centuries of gallows deaths and the sinners’ bones buried beneath them.

The ground begins to rumble. Crowley steps back and waits for the demon to dig his way up from Hell. Not a demon Crowley knows -- really, Crowley tries to avoid that lot Downstairs as much as he can -- but there's a small hawk on its shoulder, the sharp talons digging through the tattered clothes.

"Hail Satan," the demon intones, voice surprisingly deep for its slight form.

"Hail, yeah." Crowley eyes the bird; the bird stares back at him. "So, deeds of the day?"

Both the demon's and the bird's heads tilt at the same time. Neither blinks. "Was your assigned temptation accomplished?"

"All done to the letter." Crowley tries a grin but it doesn't quite stay on his face. He knows Down Below usually take him at his word; he knows that coming up to the surface to ask him directly is as much effort as they'll put into this, and even then it's rare for them to bother. He knows he followed his instructions exactly, no innovating or extra temptations while he was there. He knows all of that, but the unspoken threat of being ordered back to Hell makes him wary. It's unlikely, yes, but Hell isn't known for fairness or mercy. "Was there anything else?"

"No," the demon says, slow and sonorous. The bird on his shoulder keeps staring at Crowley like prey.

Crowley looks around the dark countryside, the red taillights leaving the road behind them. "So we're all done?" 

"You may leave," the demon rumbles, and Crowley manages a tense wave before scurrying back to the Bentley.

As he drives, Crowley finds himself thinking there was a time when he wouldn't see Aziraphale for centuries. Then Aziraphale opened the bookshop, and suddenly Crowley knew where to find him. Meeting Aziraphale was no longer an unexpected coincidence, a momentary surprise in Crowley's infernally long life; it's now a treat, carefully rationed so he doesn't visit too often in a decade. So he doesn't risk drawing Hell's attention to himself or Aziraphale. 

Maybe he hasn't been as cautious as he should be. Just because it's easy to visit Aziraphale now doesn't make it safe. At the outskirts of London, Crowley stops at a post office. The staff behind the counter seem surprised to find themselves at work so early, but they wrap the book carefully and send it to the bookshop. Crowley almost sends a note with it, but he doesn't know what to say.

***

Crowley has been drinking for four hours. Well, that's four hours down and only eleven years to go. "Eleven years," he announces mournfully, opening another bottle of wine. "It'll go-- It will go like that, angel." He clicks his fingers to demonstrate, but after three bottles of wine between them, his fingers feel thick and unwieldy. He can't make a satisfying snap.

Aziraphale is sitting on his couch, knees primly together, but he's lost his ramrod straight spine. He usually sits like a right-angle ruler, like the only proper way to sit involves keeping one's back from ever touching the seat. But now he's softened, slouched back against the leather, shoulders curled in. He looks… comfortable. Warm and soft, as inviting as a favourite armchair.

‘Inviting’ is not the right way to think of an angel, not even Aziraphale. If Hell knew, they'd have his guts for garters. Literally. Crowley turns away and pours himself another glass of wine. "Eleven years isn't very long," he says, perching on the edge of Aziraphale's desk.

"Not compared to six thousand," Aziraphale agrees. "Let's talk of something else."

"Like what?" Knowing that they only have a few short years until everything ends puts a kibosh on other conversation topics. The whole world will end up as a background for the next divine war, and even an angel as stubborn as Aziraphale or a demon as cunning as himself won't be able to avoid being conscripted into that battle. 

"Like your telephone… thing," Aziraphale says with his typical knowledge of human technology. "Tonight. The disruption. You were terribly excited about that plan."

Crowley sneers. All that planning, all that careful work, and no one Downstairs even cares about it. Armageddon is the only thing on their minds now. He sighs. "It worked well enough."

Aziraphale's expression is concerned, far more concerned than any angel should be about a demon's schemes. "Did it not go well?"

"Even ignoring the Antichrist," Crowley says with a wave of his hand and Aziraphale gives a slow, drunken nod, "Hell is run by demons who want to pick off sinners one by one, and then kill them in messy ways."

For once, Aziraphale doesn't puff out his chest and pretend that Heaven is any better. They both remember Gomorrah, and Crowley is just drunk enough to call him out if he pretended otherwise. "Surely they understood the scale of your endeavour? The sheer number of lives influenced?"

"Apparently, it lacks craftsmanship."

"Craftsmanship," Aziraphale repeats in a disbelieving tone. The scornful expression on his face makes Crowley feel warmly appreciated. At least someone values what he achieved. "My dear, that is disappointing."

The thing is… Aziraphale means it. He genuinely feels bad for Crowley's schemes not impressing his superiors, as much as he is genuinely thrilled when Crowley gets a commendation for a job well done. (As long as no one was truly hurt. As long as it doesn't impede Aziraphale's access to food, wine or books.) He's rather more sceptical and drily judgemental when Crowley gets commended for work that had nothing to do with him, but he'll still open a bottle to celebrate.

Crowley looks around the bookshop, stalling and trying not to show how touched he is by Aziraphale's earnest sympathy. "You still have that?" he asks, spotting a familiar and terribly tacky mug on Aziraphale's cluttered shelf.

"I've had that bookshelf for two hundred years. It's perfectly sturdy."

Crowley rolls his eyes. "Not the shelf. The mug. Why did you keep it?"

"It was a gift." Aziraphale peels himself off the couch and putters over to Crowley's side. He may be a divine creature of love and awe, but right now he's unsteady on his feet and enjoying the buzz of too much wine. "It was a gift from you. I wasn't going to throw it out in the rubbish."

"It's a tacky overpriced mug from Harrods. It belongs in the rubbish."

"I think it's rather lovely." Aziraphale nods as he says it, far too serious about the whole thing. He settles his hands over his waistcoat, over the soft curve of stomach and settles his shoulders back, ready to dig in his metaphorical heels. "It's whimsical."

"It's tacky."

"It's mine. You gave it to me. You don't have any say over how long I keep it," Aziraphale says firmly, ending the discussion. He holds up a bottle of wine, waving it a little. "Top up?"

Crowley turns his back on the blasted mug and offers his half-empty glass. "Please."

***

A week after the world doesn't end, Lord Beezlebub interrupts a repeat of Gavin and Stacey to tell Crowley, "You are not welcome in Hell. From now on, you zzzhall be zzzhunned. No demon will contact you; no angel will acknowledge you. You are not one of uzzz."

The screen returns to Gavin complaining about how far Wales is from anywhere interesting. Crowley stares unblinking at the screen, but Lord Beezlebub is gone. That announcement was probably meant to be a punishment… It feels like a cosmic joke. Heaven and Hell will ignore him for the rest for eternity? If he'd known they'd respond like this, Crowley would have turned traitor millennia ago.

Grinning, Crowley saunters down to the Bentley and takes off towards the bookshop. When he gets there -- with a squeal of brakes that startles pedestrians -- he strides inside, the sad little bell jingling above his head. "Aziraphale!"

"Back here," Aziraphale calls back, and Crowley follows his voice. As soon as Crowley steps into the back area, he can smell the sharp, ozone scent of the divine, the righteous edge of lightning and grace.

"Who was here?" Crowley asks, and then, "Are you okay?"

Aziraphale looks fine. Same threadbare waistcoat, same Victorian coat, same air of slightly befuddled kindness. "Yes, I think so."

"Angel," Crowley groans, half in warning and half… something too fond for a demon. An ex-demon. Whatever he is now.

"It was Uriel." Aziraphale pauses, blinking those clever blue eyes of his. "I think I've been ex-communicated."

"And?"

"That's it, apparently. I have been banished from Heaven. I will never be allowed to return. I am," Aziraphale pauses, a nervous giggle escaping before he forces it down, "a persona non grata to all angels and demons from now on."

Crowley lets his sunglasses slide down his nose, enough to look at Aziraphale over the frames and wink at him. "Welcome to the club."

"Surely they know that's not a punishment?" 

Crowley has a great imagination, but even he's struggling with the idea of being so devoted to the idea of Hell that being shunned could be a punishment. Boiled alive in holy water, sure. Fed to the hellhounds, sliced into pieces until you discorporate, only to go through it again? Everyone's heard those stories in Hell and most of them have heard the screams. "Not to them. To them, it's the worst punishment they could think of."

Aziraphale makes a face like he's considering someone else's point of view and is about to say something very reasonable. "Perhaps," he says, walking over to Crowley and letting that one word hang in the air.

Crowley rolls his eyes. "What, angel?"

"Perhaps it would feel like a punishment," Aziraphale says carefully, pausing to step closer again, "if we didn't have… our own side." 

There's something breathless in the way Aziraphale says it. Something that makes _Crowley_ feel breathless and light-headed, even if he doesn't technically need to breathe. It's lucky that Aziraphale's standing so close, otherwise he might not have heard Crowley's strangled, "It's not a punishment."

Aziraphale's smile softens as he reaches up and carefully removes Crowley's sunglasses. He lays them gently on the desk, beside that ugly angel mug, and then slides very soft fingers along Crowley's cheek. "It's freedom. Even if Judgement Day comes, even if there's nowhere on Earth for us--"

"Even if you spend eternity in Alpha Centauri?" Crowley asks, because Aziraphale's still standing there, still cupping his cheek as if they haven't spent centuries avoiding anything more revealing than a handshake or a slight brush of fingers. It's freedom, Crowley realises. They can rewrite the old rules. If he wants to turn his head and press a kiss to Aziraphale's palm, he can. He can close his eyes and do it, and listen to Aziraphale's quiet gasp.

It's crossing a line, Crowley knows. A line Aziraphale always steps back from, a line Aziraphale's never acknowledged or even talked about challenging. Crowley keeps his eyes closed, waiting for the angel to step away.

He doesn't expect the hand on his other cheek, slow and cautious. Doesn't expect the gentle press of lips against his, soft as falling rain. Patient and wholehearted, and recklessly risking everything. Determined when Crowley's bravery fails him, kind when Crowley's lost belief in compassion, Aziraphale showers Crowley with whisper-light kisses until Crowley finds the courage to reach out and wrap his arms around the angel. To embrace those solid shoulders and hold him close. To kiss him with the yearning of decades, of centuries. To kiss him with joyful, giddy abandon as Aziraphale's fingers brush along his jaw, through his hair, like Crowley is something precious, something to be treasured.

***

"We could travel," Aziraphale says later. Crowley's sprawled across the couch, head in Aziraphale's soft lap, fingers clasping Aziraphale's hand to his chest for no other reason than because he can. He can lie here and hold Aziraphale's hand and there will be no repercussions.

"Travel?"

"I'm no longer a Principality. I don't need to stay in England. It's been centuries since I've seen a desert," Aziraphale muses wistfully. "I miss the heat."

"It must have been centuries." It's hard to sound properly sarcastic while holding the angel's hand between his, feeling the warm band of gold still on his little finger. "I remember you complaining about the dust. Sand everywhere."

Aziraphale gives him a tight frown, unimpressed and unyielding and despite all that, still terribly fond underneath it all. "It would be nice to get away from the damp for a while."

"Maybe a beach," Crowley suggests. "Bora Bora? Somewhere with sunshine and clear water."

"We could travel like humans do. Try one of their aeroplanes." Aziraphale sounds far too delighted by the idea of spending hours in airports and annoyingly small seats.

"Plane, angel. They call them planes these days."

It's a lost cause. Crowley can resist arguments and threats, but he's never been able to resist this: Aziraphale looking at him hopefully and asking. "Wouldn't it be nice to see the world again?"

"I'll need a few days. I can't just drop everything," Crowley mutters.

"Everything?"

Crowley rolls his eyes. "I need to find somewhere for my plants."

"Of course," Aziraphale says, dropping a kiss to Crowley's forehead. Lingering with his lips against Crowley's skin and his body curved around Crowley. He gives Crowley's hand a squeeze and then sits up straight. "Where should we go first?"

"Wherever you want, angel."


	4. Epilogue (Home)

They travel. They walk through the recovered streets of Pompeii and the timeless deserts stretching away from the Mediterranean. They take boats to tiny islands with thatched villages and tropical clear seas. They drink whiskey from a distillery in Tokyo and limoncello in Italy and homemade grappa in Ankara that's so strong Crowley forgets how to sober up. They eat freshly caught fish and honey glazed pastries and food from every kind of market Aziraphale can find.

But eventually, they start talking about England. About the bookshop. About the latest attempt to reduce traffic on the M25 (blow it up and start again -- that's the only thing that will work. Crowley should know). About the latest attempt to gentrify Soho. Aziraphale suggests checking in on London to make sure the bookshop is still safe, so they go.

It doesn't feel like coming home, not really. It's familiar, heavy with the weight of shared history, but Crowley doesn't want to go back to his flat. It feels too much like going back to the way things used to be.

But Crowley's tired of travelling. He doesn't want to be a nomad for the rest of his days, and he knows Aziraphale misses his books and his comforting routines more than he misses London itself. Like Crowley misses his Bentley and his plants. "We should stay here."

"In my shop?" This has always been Aziraphale's place, the loophole that allowed him to keep his books safely, that gave him a place to drink cocoa and listen to Chopin. He's never made Crowley feel unwelcome here, but every brick and railing belongs to Aziraphale.

"In England, for a while." Crowley shrugs as nonchalantly as he can. "London, if you really want."

Aziraphale purses his lips, thinking. "Would you like to stay in London?"

"I've had enough traffic for this century. Somewhere small with big roads, somewhere the Bentley can breathe."

"Roar, you mean," Aziraphale corrects, tone sharply disapproving. Crowley's never loved him more. "But somewhere small would be nice. A cottage in the countryside, perhaps."

***

In the end, they find a place in South Downs. A place Aziraphale always calls 'their little cottage' as if it was a one-room hovel instead of a three-bedroom house with surprisingly large rooms. Still, it feels cosy with the two of them and their collected debris. There's a da Vinci sketch hanging on the wall next to a framed piece of lace. There's the overflow of Crowley's plants sneaking along Aziraphale's bookshelves. There's a smooth titanium travelling mug that never allows Crowley's coffee to be anything less than steaming hot; it shares a cupboard shelf with the tackiest mug to ever have wings. 

In the bedroom, there are two supernatural beings, formerly occult and ethereal, lying beneath the covers of the large, comfortable bed. Crowley plays on his phone, endlessly fascinated by the latest app created to waste everyone's time. There's a soft glow from the bedside lamp, enough for Aziraphale to read a dusty two-inch-thick book. His glasses are perched on his nose and when he turns the pages, the light catches on a gold ring. 

Crowley sometimes looks over, catches Aziraphale's gaze and smiles. 


End file.
